Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 40

Review – Glenfiddich, Solera Vat, 15 Years Old, 40%

No, I’m not being snobbish. I just don’t want to do what everyone else is doing.

To give my opinion honestly…

When you take a trip through cyberspace in search of whisky reviews, in the end, many of the competing blogs, articles, and even the snippets from emblematic printed volumes seem to share the same general premises. Each is an exceptionally bountiful read, to be sure, full of lots of helpful information. Most deal with similar themes like history, aging processes, regions, distillery idiosyncrasies, and the like. I’m not saying this is necessarily bad; however, for me at least, it is a dry and impersonal tradition of simply introducing the reader to information that is easily locatable on Wikipedia or in travel books.

I’m trying to do something different. I’m working by way of narratives. I’m working to weave you, the reader, into the experience so that you taste and then either enjoy or despise the particular whisky edition with me. It’s so much more than sharing a few details and then giving a rating from 1 to 10, that is, suggesting that it might be relatively good or bad. I’m badgering your emotions. I’m trying to initiate a process that is designed to help you make the whisky experience your own and to enable you to reflect back upon the experience with a much fuller sense of having been a participant, or at a minimum, having been able to connect my narrative to your life.

Take, for example, the following remark from a woman who considered my review of Scoresby:

“I have to say it was a beautifully executed synopsis of the philosophy of relativism. I felt like I was back in college nodding my head emphatically at the instructor. Then to follow up such an eloquent lesson with that gut busting analysis… Let’s just say I had to redo my makeup. As I look at this unopened bottle I am filled with a sense of dread that when I open it a plume of toxic vapor and searing white light (ala Indiana Jones “lost ark”) will be released and scald the faces off of any one in the downtown Seattle corridor. If you hear about it on the news… You’ll know the truth. Wish me luck!”

You can see by her words that she “owned” the experience and she leapt from it with an ability to describe an expectation drenched in colorful imagery rather than a drab and forgettable rating as good or bad.

I’m not striving to maneuver mechanically. I’m working to build bridges with the readers that others do not. I want to engage the readers at a deeper level, bringing them into and making them participants in my own experiences through a vast array of tools of language at my disposal. As I already said, and while it remains my opinion, I believe that the reader will too soon forget the details of a routine systematic description, and yet will be less likely to forget an event in which his or her mind was engaged as an observer and/or participant because he or she could see the trees, smell the ocean air, hear the crowd, and interacted with the characters in the story as their paths intersected with a particular whisky edition. When the reader discovers the same whisky in a store, he or she will be able to enunciate, “Hey, I know that whisky! That’s the one that cost Frank the Wampa his arm!”

That’s my goal. However, I understand there will be a downside to this. It’s the reason behind this particular excursus.

As I reach for and into the reader’s “self,” sometimes it will be that I press to the extremities of comfortability, risking the reader taking offense, especially if he or she has claimed a particular whisky as his or her own prior to reading my review and discovering that I chose an alternate path. I know this. I get that it happens because I, too, am a member of the fellowship of undue human foolishness and have experienced the same sensations while reading other whisky reviewer’s concluding paragraphs.

And still, to avoid doing what so many are already doing well enough, I’m willing to take that chance, and I’m willing to own the content of my words before I click the blog button entitled “Publish.”

Now, having supposed all of this, “Come, let us reason together and enjoy a dram,” the Prophet Isaiah submits. Well, he said the first half of that sentence, anyway. How about the Glenfiddich 15-year-old Solera Vat? It’s a pleasant enough peacekeeper amongst enthusiasts; not the best, but also not the worst.

There’s an immoderate fruitiness about the nose, leaving the impression that it’s quite possible you are about to nibble upon some of those juice filled fruit snacks that you give to your kids.

The palate supplies a rich, chocolaty morsel just beyond the fruit juice. The sherry influence is copious, almost too much so.

The finish is rather stingy, finding its fade delta much too quickly. On the way out, it tosses a few more of those fruit snacks at you and then calls it quits.

As I said, it’s not the best, but for the price (about $50), it’s also not the worst. It is a moderately easy potion to keep in our midst in order that we might practice collegiality and smile together, because is it not true, as Mother Theresa weighed, “Peace begins with a smile and a reasonably drinkable dram”? Well, she said the first half of that sentence, anyway.

Review – Grande Absente, Absinthe Originale, 69% (138 Proof)

I just returned from the events of a very challenging day. Friends, I’m very tired.

You know days like this, yes? I’m sure you do. Most people do; most normal folks, at least.

What showed itself as the premier challenge was the disheartening revelation during a theological discussion that my four years of seminary education just may have been a huge waste of money. Why do I say this? Because it would seem that so many people have somehow become renowned scholars in historical, exegetical, and systematic theology without a day of formal theological study.

Now, I don’t mean to sound as though I’m lording the academics of the pastoral office, but at a minimum level of sensibility, it makes little sense to argue the hermeneutics emerging from a particular Greek word used in the Gospel of Saint Matthew when you’ve never studied the Greek language. And then to go home, hop on Google, fashion a near-illogical exegesis, craft it into what you believe is a systematic absolute by way of an assemblage of various internet snippets, and then blast it to the pastor to prove him incorrect, well, it just seems so obviously foolish.

I don’t know everything, and I would never insinuate that I do, but in tandem, I would never challenge my doctor to a contest of wits regarding human anatomy and physiology, nor would I attempt to engage my lawyer in a Law debate. Both my doctor and my lawyer may have their opinions, but facts remain facts. At a minimum, the pastor employing the objective elements of his vocation deserves the same consideration.

The problem is that in a radically individualized society, no one considers theology to be a field of absolutes, and thusly, everyone is an expert. Interestingly, we’re beginning to see the same with medicine and law. Biology is becoming a preference. Subjective truths are becoming rights.

Oh well, believe whatever you want. I’m having a stiff drink, and while I sip, I intend to peruse Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Know how sublime a thing it is,” Longfellow muses, “to suffer and be strong.”

(Sigh.)

Yes, Henry, I’ll show up in the office tomorrow.

In the meantime, let tonight be tonight. The evening remains relatively young, and the glass in my hand contains an Absinthe pour from a bottle gifted to me about a year ago by a good friend who is now with the Lord. At 138 proof, there’s a good chance that I may join her very soon.

Again, whatever.

Before adding the water and sugar cube pictured in the image, the nose of this beastie is a thickset of black licorice. With the traditionally prescribed additions, there emerges a peck of sweetened lime.

The palate gives the same black licorice with and without water, of course with the water, it’s less pronounced. Interestingly, at full 138 proof strength, I notice very little burn. Impressive, and dangerous, as this is a sweet tea that pretends to be a thirst quencher.

The finish was a medium rinse of sugar with a swiftly receding waxy feel. Not great, but not necessarily unpleasant.

You know what would make it unpleasant? Another email from the aforementioned theological scholar.

(Let’s see…okay… Ah! Here we go! “How to block an email address in Outlook.” Hah! I am now an expert in all things email protocol.)

Review – Buchanan’s DeLuxe Blended Scotch Whisky, 12 Years Old, 40%

“I want to live in Texas,” my six-year-old called out from the back seat as we made our way to school one morning.

“Why’s that, honey?” I asked already assuming that her answer had something to do with Chip and Joanna Gaines, the stars of “Fixer Upper,” which is a favorite reality TV show that she likes to watch with her mother and sister.

“Because Chip and Joanna live there.”

I was right. But then she tossed a curve ball.

“And because that’s where the beaver lives.”

“Which beaver is that, Evelyn?” I enquired now somewhat puzzled.

“You know,” she continued, “the one that when he sees his shadow, it stops snowing.”

This girl is all sorts of confused. Go ahead and laugh. I did, quietly, of course.

“Honey,” I said carefully, “I think you mean Punxsutawney Phil, and he’s a ground hog.”

“He is?” she said clearly shocked by the revelation.

“And he doesn’t live in Texas,” I added. “He lives in Pennsylvania.”

A moment of silence passed.

“Do they have beavers in Texas?” she probed.

“I can’t say for sure,” I said, “but I’ll bet they probably do.”

“Well, I still want to live in Texas. I like beavers.”

“Me, too, honey.”

Evelyn knows what she likes. She may not know all of the peripheral details surrounding what she likes, but no matter. She has a point of origin and that is important. The road of discovery is ever open before her for unearthing the rest.

I know what I like. I like whisky. As it is right now for my six-year-old daughter and particular semiaquatic rodents, it remains for me with the aqua vitae. I am always discovering something new – something I didn’t know before, a distillery or edition that I failed to detect, a process that I somehow missed, a flavor I’ve never experienced. It is a busy byway, one full of intrigue.

The Buchanan’s DeLuxe 12-year-old is the culmination of such a moment.

Even though I have an unopened special release of this whisky bottled in 1938, and trust me, I am always resisting the urge to open it, often it is that I’ve passed over its grandchild edition on the shelves of my favorite shops, and not because I didn’t want to try it, but rather because, in a sense, I guess it never really reached for me. Today it did, and now I am a little further along the byway.

The nose of this edition is pleasant enough, but also somewhat prickly. There is the sense of tequila-soaked lemon peels mingled with strawberries lightly dusted with powdered sugar.

On the tongue, there’s a tinge of peat, but it is indeed as nothing beside the spiked chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and wood spice medley.

The finish is long, and if you were to a degree disappointed by the palate’s minimal plume, your sadness is suddenly found consoled by a peppery smoke. Again it is ghostly transparent, but this time it takes the helm and leaves the others to fade.

Now that I’ve finally tired this stuff, I wonder what the 1938 edition is like. I’m tempted. Oh so tempted.

How about this? I’ll make a special trip down to Waco, Texas to visit that infamous beaver, Waco Will, and if he sees his shadow, I’ll open it and then report back to you. If he doesn’t, then that means I’ll go and buy another grandchild bottle. Either way, I figure I’ll have something to help with the never-ending winter that the Pennsylvania rat Phil seems to have misdiagnosed.

Review – Wemyss Malt, The Hive, 12 Years Old, 40%

Have you thought much about the fact that you will eventually die? Emily Dickinson was quite insightful when she mused:

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –

The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

And Immortality.

I’ve thought on the subject. When it will occur doesn’t concern me as much as you might think, although I do wonder where it will transpire and in what form it will approach me.

It is all but mathematically certain that the location will be one of three places as they relate to my vocation: the church, a hospital, or a member’s home. These are the places where I spend most of my days, and combined, they often bear such an incredible gravity that I’m very certain years are being peeled from my lifespan.

Of the three, it’s most likely that Death’s carriage will arrive for me at the church. For the sake of the people I serve, I hope it doesn’t pull up in the middle of a sermon or while teaching a Bible study. Even though Death comes for all, it remains alien to most. To visit its aftermath at a funeral home is one thing. To witness it take its last few stalking steps is quite another. I’ve been present at such an event many, many times in my life. As a Christian, I have an unconquerable hope in the face of death, nevertheless it remains a pointed and uneasy reminder to “self” that “you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

How it will happen has me curious. Most likely it will be an aneurism brought on by stress during a Church Council meeting, but I’m hoping it will be a little more exciting than that. Maybe I’ll be mopping the church floor and I’ll slip and fall and die at the foot of the Lord’s altar. That would be okay. Or maybe I’ll fall from the choir loft head first into the Baptismal font below. Who knows?

“Death has a thousand doors to let out life: I shall find one.” Ah, ’tis true, Mr. Massinger. ’Tis true.

Alas, if perhaps one day the Lord arrives in my chamber and enquires, “Dear child, your days are nearly complete and the clock will soon cease to tap for you. What is your preference then for that final hour?”

I know what I would say, and it would roll forth from my lips without hesitation.

“Gracious Lord,” I’d offer, head lowered before the Creator, “I am heartily unworthy to ask anything of You, and so if it pleases you, let me die in my bed…which if it also pleases you, would happen to be a bed in a cottage overlooking a Scottish loch, no matter the one, with a dram of fine Scotch whisky in my hand, having just finished eating a medium-rare steak after finally getting that ride in an F-15 that I always wanted. Oh yeah, and my bride and children would be at my side.”

“How about I just give you a nudge when you’re up in the choir loft, and I make sure that your family is at your bedside in the hospital? We have great whisky, fine lochs, and wonderful beef in heaven. And I heard that James and John, the Zebedee boys, just placed an order for an F-22 Raptor. There’s a reason those boys were called ‘the sons of thunder’ in Mark 3:17, you know.”

“Sure, Lord. As it pleases you.”

This aforementioned discourse is unlikely to happen, and yet even as the Lord is omniscient and already knows the contours of my preferences, if He changes his mind and decides that my request is in perfect alignment with His will, then I wonder which whisky will be in my hand when I breathe my last.

This Wemyss Malt called “The Hive” isn’t too bad, although it probably wouldn’t be my first hope.

With a name like “The Hive” you can probably guess what to expect from the whisky. And you’d be right. Its air is awash in the bees’ business, conferring alongside it a sweet track of assorted sweets – whipped cream and grains spritzed with brown sugar.

You might want to have a cup of coffee on hand while you sip this blended release. It is just as sweet to the palate as it is to the nose, gathering all of the highlights from a fruit-covered stack of pancakes drenched in butter and maple syrup.

The whisky gives a medium finish to all that the palate discerned, and it is one that pairs well with and is easily tempered by a cup of black coffee. As you can see, I stand by the fact that you’ll need it.

Now, promise me something, will you?

If you happen to be around at my last and you see that my children have played a joke upon their frail father by pouring Scoresby as his final dram, call my lawyer so that I can make a few quick changes as it pertains to them, and then be sure to swap the glass with another more suitable. Don’t feel as though you need to reach for this particular Wemyss Malt. Perhaps something from The Balvenie, or maybe a stiff rock glass filled with Laphroaig. Either of these have the potential to add a few hours to my mortal existence. That alone would be a kindness on your part worthy of my whisky collection, and I’d have enough time to make it so with the Lawyer.

Review – Johnnie Walker, Black Label, 12 Years Old, 40%

Ready-to-eat breakfast cereal has been around since the 1860s and still no one seems to be able to design cereal packaging that is easy to open. And by “easy,” first I mean a bag that doesn’t require fingers capable of producing 5,000 pounds of pinch force and arms of equal torque to pull it apart; and second, when the bag does finally open, it doesn’t do so in a blinding flash of cereal erupting to all corners of the kitchen from an exploded box and a jaggedly disfigured bag.

“Why don’t you just use scissors?” you ask.

To your inquiry, I would simply say, “You shouldn’t have to start your day that way. You shouldn’t have to go through the rather demeaning process of feeling like less of a man only a few minutes after you’ve awakened because you can’t get the cereal packaging opened. And then to make it worse, you find it necessary to do the loser’s march to the junk drawer to get the scissors. How about giving the modern consumer something to eat at 5:00 a.m. that doesn’t require a demonstration of his upper body strength combined with fine motor skills right after he has been asleep for eight hours? How about just giving us a package we can open?”

There are certain breakfast cereals that are worse than others.

I can usually get a box of Cap’n Crunch opened with relative ease. The same goes for Honey Nut Cheerios. But you’d better take an aspirin before trying to open the bag inside of a box of Life cereal. In fact, I’m fearful that it could be rather dangerous to anyone with a heart condition. The over-exertion might cause a heart attack. Maybe they should just change the name of the cereal to “Afterlife” since that is a distinct possibility.

This one deserved to die.

And how about Lucky Charms? I know how that cereal got its name. There are few lucky ones who can actually open the bag without incident. Oh yeah, and it takes the magical assistance of a leprechaun.

How about this instead… Rather than paying an illustrator to drape the box with a multitude of seizure-inducing graphics, just slap a cheap crossword puzzle on there and then give the rest of the money to an engineer who has been tasked with designing a fool-proof package, one that we, the members of the 5 a.m. brigade, can open effortlessly.

Having now said all of this, believe it or not there is a parallel between vexing cereal boxes and whisky. It is simply that while some whiskies, as with certain cereal boxes, open up cleanly and with great ease, there are those with a paleness about them which makes it seem as though they remain closed, that is, they are stubbornly retaining their charisma. This is what I experienced when I removed the cap of the Johnnie Walker Black and poured a little into my glass. The initial impression was that this particular whisky would need a little extra coaxing to detect its peculiarities.

And so I swirled and tipped the glass, spinning the whisky in one direction and then slowing it to a halt in order to reverse course. In the midst of the commotion, I did manage to expose the edition enough so that what seemed like warm applesauce and brandy was able to steal up and out of the glass.

On the palate, this edition needs little assistance. With an unimposing measure of smoke breezing by an assortment of nut breads, it is here that the whisky turns from its beginning as “Johnnie Standing Still” to “Johnnie Walker.”

The finish is so-so, nothing too exciting. The breads return, except now they’ve been coupled with fruit – blueberries and bananas.

If it were proper, I’d suggest the possibility of Johnnie Walker Black Label as a part of a balanced breakfast. I speak only for myself when I say that sometimes, after a go in the ring with a box of Frosted Mini Wheats, a sip of whisky might be the calming difference between getting the scissors or a quarter stick of dynamite.

Review – Inver House, “Green Plaid” Blended Scotch Whisky, 3 Years Old, 40%

“Evelyn’s dead,” I heard from my office as I made my way down the hall. “Your turn, Maddy.”

Sure enough, there Evelyn was, sprawled out on the floor like a film noir crime scene. The kids were playing a game they call “Death Limbo.”

I know it has sort of a Roman Catholic ring to it, but it has nothing to do with that.

Essentially, one child holds a lightsaber while the others contort to make their way beneath it. If you touch the lightsaber, you die. Evelyn touched the lightsaber. Actually, it’s more likely that Harrison tapped her with it as she attempted to pass.

Kids love games like this, that is, games that pretend to involve death. Don’t you remember playing on the living room furniture, pretending that the recliner and sofa were safe, but the floor was molten lava? Or perhaps the coffee table was a pirate ship and the floor was an ocean of hungry sharks, one of which was your six-year-old sister? The trouble with that particular rendition is that somehow the shark, bored because no one was coming into the water, always managed to evolve into a land shark.

Everyone but the shark dies in that version of the game. It is, indeed, a massacre.

If we parents were smart, we’d adapt those games to serve general household maintenance. There would be games called “Death Laundry” and “Death Empty-the-Dishwasher.” I’m currently devising the “Death Do-your-Homework” and “Death Why-are-you-still-playing-with-your-Legos-I-told-you-to-get-in-the-Shower-twenty-Minutes-ago” editions to present to Hasbro. I’m sure both will be huge hits.

As a whisky reviewer, I’m starting to wonder if there are a few distillers out there playing a game of “Death Whisky” with the consuming public, except it involves really dying.

I’m keeping a short list of editions (Scoresby, Lauder’s, and the like) that in mid-sip, I was convinced that I was about to pass on, and if it weren’t for God’s grace in designing the human gag reflex, I wouldn’t be here right now.

I’m thinking that I’ll be adding the Inver House Blended Scotch Whisky to that list.

The nose of this whisky is light, but brutal. I have nothing to share but great sadness. Okay, maybe there’s a little bit of glazed almond, but that’s a mere false beauty serving much in the same fashion as the alluring nectar of a Venus Fly Trap.

The palate is equally noxious, providing a momentary distraction of almost weightless peat. But again, this is only there so that you don’t necessarily realize that the whisky has trapped you and is even now consuming you.

The finish is short, with a little bit of malt remaining. I should say that few make it to the finish. The only reason I can share it is because much like Wesley and the iocane powder scene from the movie “The Princess Bride,” I’ve spent many years consuming such poisonous things and have built up an immunity.

This is to your benefit, my friend.

Review – anCnoc, 12 Years Old, 43%

“I’ve got this,” Rey said giving Chewbacca a compassionate glance. “Go get some rest.”

Her voice was soothing, but still Chewbacca’s heart was breaking.

“Mrrh,” he gave with little more vigor than a whisper. Looking out into space from the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon, the darkness was all-consuming, the emptiness matching the sadness of his soul, even though he felt as though he no longer had one.

“I know,” Rey offered and gave him a gentle nudge. “We’ll deal with Kylo Ren very soon,” she continued. “Until then, we need to find Luke.”

“Mrrharrhh!” Chewbacca howled. Kylo Ren would pay dearly for what he’d done.

He set down his headset and lumbered back to the game console. Everything reminded him of Han. Everything kindled a rage for Kylo Ren.

R2-D2 rolled up beside him. There was no need to scan the wookie. R2 already knew he was suffering.

“Wrrrp reep, brr orrrp,” the droid offered, but he received only silence. Chewbacca’s head was in his hands, his mane pouring down onto the game table like a muddy waterfall.

“Oo-oh,” R2 sighed and rolled closer to what Chewbacca expected was merely a friendly place beside him. It was then that the little hatch just above R2’s primary scanning lens popped open and an unopened bottle of the anCnoc 12-year-old arose. In that same moment, R2’s forward utility gate opened and out came his little mechanized claw holding a rock glass.

“Arrp orp errrp reeet rorrrt,” R2 explained and invited Chewbacca to take the gifts. Apparently Han had stashed the bottle and glass now on display not long after he and Leia separated. Unfortunately he was unable to retrieve it when R2-D2 went into hibernation mode, and now here it was – an accidental gift from Han to the only one with whom he’d ever consider sharing it – his truest friend, Chewbacca.

“Hmmph,” Chewbacca snorted as the sadness subsided for a bit. He took the bottle and pulled the cap clean without even unwrapping the foil. In an instant, the rock glass was half full.

Shortly the chamber filled with the familiar scent of dried cherries and honey drifting across the grassy hillside near his childhood home on Kashyyyk. In that moment, he was there, an untamed young wookie running and climbing and wrestling with friends.

He examined the dram before taking a sip. The console lights beyond it collected within, making it sparkle with brightness, like the first piercing beam of a Kashyyyk sunrise.

He went for a taste. The cherries were easy to find, as were cream-filled dark chocolates and chips of dried honeycomb.

The finish was an offbeat combination of something vegetal with a slightly bitter aftertaste from a reasonably sour grapefruit.

“Mrrahhrr,” Chewy called, took another quick sip, and thumped R2 in delight. It sounded like the lid being slammed shut on a garbage can. The little astrodroid didn’t appreciate the jarring, nevertheless he gave an affirming couple of whirs to show he was glad to have provided a moment of joy for a mourning wookie.

Chewy continued to sip the whisky. R2-D2 continued to stand guard. The sadness dissipated.

It was then that the hairiest of the two noticed the Jedi training ball that Luke and Obi Wan brought aboard many years ago when they first sought the Falcon for safe passage to Alderaan.

“Hrrlmf,” Chewy growled. Perhaps Kylo Ren wasn’t the only one to pay for Han’s fate. If it weren’t for Obi Wan and Luke approaching in Mos Eisley, both Han and Chewbacca never would have been woven into a saga which would see Leia give birth to Kylo Ren and eventually bring about the demise of the wookie’s best friend. Of course, Obi Wan was dead and well beyond blame’s reach, but they were currently en route to Skywalker.

“Mrrharrh,” Chewabacca howled and looked back into his twinkling glass. In this single grunt, it was decided that Chewbacca would wait by the Falcon once they arrive at Luke’s location, but he would be sure to have a “discussion” with the so-called Jedi master when the chance revealed itself.

“Marrhmf,” he said. In other words, he intended to be civil. “Mrraramf,” he added.

At this, R2-D2 rolled toward the cockpit. He figured he should let Rey know that Chewbacca might try to pull off Luke’s arms.

 

Review – Crown Royal, Hand Selected Barrel, (No Age Stated), 51.5%

The man was clearly annoyed with the exchange because, well, it wasn’t a true exchange.

Refueling what appeared to be his work truck, He shifted his stance, kept looking away, and even sighed a few times. Unfortunately, the gentleman consuming his time didn’t seem to get the hint. He just kept talking, rambling on and on about everything and nothing, almost every sentence ending with something like, “You know what I mean?” or “I know, right.”

Just on the other side of the pump station, I couldn’t help but listen intently and give a few guarded glances. The listening man did not speak once.

The other was still speaking when I finished refueling my car and then crossed the lot to retrieve the change from what was a pre-paid purchase. There was a line at the counter.

The first in line was there only to purchase cigarettes, and while the clerk made the exchange, a brief conversation started between them about e-cigarettes. The next patron stepped forward to pre-pay for fuel. The third in line, like me, was retrieving her change, but also asked for various scratch-and-win lottery tickets by name. I’d already been inside the building for a few minutes before receiving my change and making my way back outside.

The prattling continued even as the man was finishing and putting the cap back on his tank. I got into my car and pulled away from the pump, but rolled over near the air compressor used for tire refills and watched.

The listening man crossed his arms and looked at the ground. The other kept speaking. A minute or two went by and the listener started to get into his truck. The other kept speaking as the door closed and the vehicle slowly began to pull away.

I saw the speaker wave. There was no return from the man in the truck.

Amazing.

Do you think that folks who do this kind of stuff realize what they’re doing? This man obviously didn’t. It’s almost as if I was watching a predatory event. A full grown male bore was on the hunt, had captured a hapless victim, and was feasting gluttonously. Reminds me of something John Updike wrote.

“One in every three hundred and twelve Americans is a bore,” Updike penned in his volume Assorted Prose, “and a healthy adult male bore consumes each year one and a half times his weight in other people’s patience.”

I’d just witnessed such an event.

Later in the evening, I was considering the event while reviewing the Hand Selected Barrel edition from Crown Royal.

Like the speaker to the listener, as the predator to the prey, this particular Crown Royal was challenging to endure.

The nose is that of homemade ketchup, except the culinarian kept putting in more and more white sugar and vinegar even as he was urged to stop.

The palate is overly candied like most other Crown Royals I tried, except this time it is precisely a bubble gum syrup used in the mix. The first sip is like taking a mouthful of Big League chewing gum.

The finish is long and warm. I like its heat, but everything else is patience-draining. Its boozey alcohol bite keeps jabbering at you long after you’d hoped it would cease.

Perhaps I should keep a flask of this stuff in my hip pocket in case I’m ever trapped by such a wily beast as the lecturing man at the gas station. When he starts to speak, I would casually interrupt with an offering of this Crown Royal.

“I know, right? Hey, want to try some of the Crown Royal Hand Selected Barrel I’ve got here? Oh, c’mon, how can you refuse? You know what I’m saying?”

I figure that if he does accept the offer I’d have a good fifteen to twenty seconds to duck out while he jerks back and scowls to shake it off.

Review – The Macallan, Reflexion, (No Age Stated), 43%

When you look into the mirror, what do you see? For me, it isn’t what I see, but what I hear.

Just above my main whisky cabinet is a mirror. I visit it each morning before departing for the day. It has two small drawers above the whisky compartment, one of which is compartmentalized and holds the tabs for my clerical collar. I pause at this drawer each and every morning as I make my way into what is almost always a day of unknowns.

Each morning, there is that moment when the one standing there before me is as silent as I even as we both give a glance, fix our collars, and await the other to speak. He is listening, and I am, too. We hear the same thing. It’s something of a line from T.S. Eliot, a low susurration of thought to remind us, “In my beginning is my end.” The thought consigns a grin, not a smile, and speaks aloud, “Pax tecum, amicus meus.”

Eliot’s words have various meanings for me. As they belong to my day, they remind me that no matter how surprisingly wonderful or gruesome the day yet unknown may be, as God allows, my ending will be as my beginning – here with my wife, my four children, and all that comprises the warmth and security of my home. And so I petition God’s willingness, “Peace be with you, my friend.”

Eliot’s words mean something completely different when I open the cabinet below the mirror. They retell the story of the first time I came face to face with a finer Scotch whisky. They prompt for me to acknowledge that such a beginning was also my end.

I scoffed at the price there in the little shop in London, and I considered it foolishness that I would ever give over a portion of my wage for such mammon. But with that first sip, so began a course that has now seen the wage become the mammon and the whisky become the wage, a stipend acquired by gathering and saving over the course of many months, a payment of sorts granted by the Lord – a holy thing for a holy one – when I feel as though I can’t go on any longer or that I’m coming undone by the weight of everyone else’s sorrows.

The Macallan Reflexion is a “holy thing.”

Look now to the mirror once more. Ask the one there, “Tell me again, dear friend, which whisky is the one you most prefer?” Affirm his answer as true and good, but then urge him to consider that there may be another one in waiting. I say it could be the Reflexion.

The bottle will be judged by some as too ornate, almost certainly adding to the cost of production and increasing the final fee, but just as we do not serve the Lord’s Supper on paper plates and plastic cups, but rather use flagons and patens of polished silver, I would suggest as Publius Syrus that “A fair exterior is a silent recommendation.” This whisky is deserving of such ornamentation.

The color is rayless; a dark mixture of cinnamon and blood.

The nose is a sea swept Florida breeze crisscrossing a citrus grove. In another breath, the sky cedes a touch of the honeybee’s hard work gathered and clinging to an almond tree.

On the palate, the cinnamon has been divided from the color and sprinkled into chocolate once simmering but now stirred and cooling in a sherry oak bowl. The image is hypnotizing.

The finish, while medium, is exceptionally full. And yet it leaves one believing it was short, but only because of the sadness that it must leave at all. As it goes, it combines all that is the nose and palate and bids a kind farewell.

“Ah, yes, and farewell to you,” my reflection and I say. “When will it be that we join with you again?”

“If God wills it, soon.”

“Yes, and we pray that He does. Pax tecum, amicus meus.”

Review – Michter’s, Small Batch Original Sour Mash Whiskey, (No Age Statement), 43%

The conversation was incredibly short, nevertheless, it nearly drove me mad. What is happening to our language, dear people?!

I was walking out of a Meijer store when I was confronted by a group of petitioners. To their credit, they were braving a very cold day in order to further a cause important to them. But I had a migraine, was not in favor of their cause, and I was in a hurry to get back to the church to prepare for a worship service later that same evening.

“Sir, we need your signa-chore,” said a man who I am convinced could have passed as my twin. “If you sign,” he kept on with what I thought was an almost hyper-dramatic display of concern, “we can recall Governor Snyder and move foe-erd to help the people of Flint.” He barely took a breath, “Time is short. The people there are stuck in some trouble and they can’t ex-cape.”

I interrupted him. “You need my what?”

“We could sure use your signa-chore,” he responded with a little more volume.

“Oh, you mean my signature.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I thought you said something about doing chores.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” I said and took the petition to give it a glance. “This doesn’t say anything about something that used to be a cape.”

“What?”

“You said something about an ‘ex-cape.’”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either.”

“This is a petition to recall Governor Snyder,” he said with some uncomfortable emphasis.

“Oh,” I said acting as though I finally understood. “Ah, no thanks. He’s doing the best he can. But keep warm, okay?”

“Yeah, thanks. You too… (Jerk.)”

In most circumstances I would think that the pollsters and petitioners are the ones serving in the roll of antagonist. I do realize that I assumed the role in this situation, and I suppose that if I could do it all over again, it would be different. But I did note for you in the beginning the multiple factors which played into my scrappy demeanor, yes? There is still another that I did not mention – my concern for language.

In the instance I noted above, there were only a few irksome mispronunciations, some of which may be attributed to regional linguistic differences while others are just a result of gross negligence. Regardless, the next time you are out and about, listen very carefully to your fellow humans communicating with one another and you’ll notice that American society is quite literally swimming in vernacular carelessness.

Still, what care is there for this? The care is that in our society in general, “lazy” appears to be overtaking “diligent.” Language usage is one place to see it occurring, and by this, I mean that the lazy pronunciations are overtaking the correct pronunciations as most common, even to the point that those who guard the language are removing what is correct for what is popular. For example, the term is correctly spelled “never mind” and yet “nevermind” is more common and will make its debut in the Webster dictionary next year. Subtle, yes, but it won’t be long before “dialate” replaces “dilate,” “orientated” outweighs “oriented,” or “excettera” overshadows “et cetera.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I know that language evolves. It’s why we now say “Halloween” instead of “All Hallow’s Eve.” Nevertheless, I have my limits, and I promise you that when “liberry” swaps places of acceptability with “library,” I’m going to become a full time speaker of Latin. Yes, it’s a dead language, but a dead language is an unchanging and precise language. There’s a reason the scientists still use it.

I say all of this as I sit here sipping the third of four Bourbon samples I was given for consideration: Michter’s Small Batch Original Sour Mash Whiskey. By the way, it’s not hwiskey, it’s whiskey. The “h” follows the “w” and it is silent. Don’t feel as though you must convince your listeners that the “h” exists. If they didn’t already learn it in school, they’ll most likely see it on the bottle.

This particular edition from Michter’s is a jumbled mispronunciation of what it means to be whiskey and I could never justify spending $45 to own it.

The nose hovers only slightly above my least favorite Bourbon – Jim Beam. There is barely any difference, except that the Michter’s does manage to deliver enough of a cloying invitation that one at least wants to follow through to the sip. The first time I ever smelled Jim Beam, I dumped it into the empty glass of a friend next to me when he wasn’t looking. He liked the stuff, but for me it was a good riddance.

Having taken a sip, I can’t tell if this thing really knows what kind of whiskey it wants to be. Is it a rye? Is corn its thing? I don’t know. It is struggling to speak properly. I do taste the sweetness mentioned in the nosing, but it leaves the impression that it is more of an artificial flavoring than a result of natural processes. I think they added a drop of the raspberry, or maybe the cherry, flavoring used to make Flintstones vitamins.

The finish is a medium grazing of barrel spice with what seemed like a little bit of salted caramel. Not bad, but not good enough to make this a preferred edition.

Although this “hwiskey” “supposably” has a “volumptuous” flavor with exceptional “foilage,” I just didn’t get it. I “prolly” won’t go for it if I ever come “acrossed” it again.